31 August 2006

8 swashbuckling


the perks of being a girl (slips! skirts! stilettos! oh my!) are really too great to ever resent not being a guy. but if i were a guy- probably because i read entirely too many dumas novels at entirely too young an age- i would want to be a swashbuckler. because swashbuckling seems the best of both worlds. fancy weaponry? yes. frilly, bejewelled clothing? yes. violent, heroic death? yes. perfumes? yes. and it just sounds like the funnest guy thing to be (despite the fact that my feminine sensibilities are rather disgusted by the "swash" bit).

i do realize that swashbuckling is not all schemes and swagger and sabers. it's very 17th century paris- and that's a century and a paris where baths were infrequent and the wearing of all things velvetine was bound to result in some unpleasantry. but if i were a swashbuckling fella, i could deal.

of the three musketeers- of which there were actually four- i would probably be aramis. if we're basing that on the disney film (the one that made chris o'donnell the offical dreamboat of 1993), that would make me charlie sheen. a mysterious, spiritual, sensual charlie sheen as opposed to a drugged-out, sex-addicted, 9/11-conspiracy-touting charlie sheen. in the 1998 dicaprio version, i would be played by jeremy irons, which is a bit more respectable.

but, i do have to wonder, is there a swashbuckler in all of us? secretly. deep down. particularly the men. do you occasionally, in private with the curtains drawn, don frilly blouses and brandish imaginary weapons while doing the dishes? sometimes i wear the red lace bombshell dress and rhinestones while vacuuming. because sometimes, as a girl, you just need to be audrey hepburn being sabrina fairchild. et tu, lads?

30 August 2006

25 the whiney voices venue

since we've clearly tapped into a need for an ongoing dialogue among people with a mutual affection for whiney voiced bands, the dread pirate had this fabulous idea:

"by the way let me propose a joint venture. I say you devote an upcoming article, either for OitC or JBB (i only suggest the former because it so clearly betrays its Olinian partialities) for a list of the top 10 Whiny-voiced albums of all time. I say we pool our resources here. As many people as we can gather (and trust, mind) submit their top 10. From their the top vote getters move on. It will be ever so much fun.

Perhaps we should first define the ground rules for an album to qualify. Perhaps narrow the vocal range or at least say the following adjectives apply (nasal, fey, etc..).

my mind is a-blur."


howsabout a dual article for JBB- like the men of the east and west coasts? DDP could take the whiney men. Prof. J. could handle the women (whiney or otherwise).

discuss amongst yourselves...

29 August 2006

8 reasons not to leave the house wearing a 4H shirt

because- even if you are merely making a mad dash to the marché to staunch a diet coke craving- you will inevitably run into a long lost acquaintance, who will then assume that the 4H shirt is not an anamoly but a way of life. because the wearing of the 4H shirt in public is the fashion equivalent of driving down the interstate on a plow.

and we're talking the real deal here, folks. those unmistakable 4 clover leaves accompanied by those damning 4 Hs. admittedly, this is a cleverly fitted 4H shirt that is borderline sexy. or at the very least, as close to sexy as a white t-shirt emblazoned with a logo beloved by farmers the world over can be.

the 4H shirt has gone places. but most often it has gone under other, cuter things. on this particular day the wearing of the 4H shirt outside the house was rendered even less style savy by the rain, an ill-advised decision to wear glasses, and the rocking of a side ponytail a la andrea zuckerman (who, let's face it, was the 90210er none of us wanted to be but who we all rightly feared we probably were).

i didn't know that anyone i knew had the time to go to the marché at 11.20 a.m. on a tuesday morning. but then i also didn't know that anyone i knew actually pondered apples, weighing one in an outstretched palm as if it were a magic 8 ball and empires were at stake. now i know that i do know people who do that.

this person i know who i now know does that- a long-lost mapher who only shows up on my side of town on days of exceptionally, out-of-the-norm bad hair- deftly took in the 4H shirt. it was partially concealed by a totally fabulous, non-farmer-approved plum jacket. but really, there's no hiding those Hs. the look on her face was strangely akin to the horror on my mum's when, prepping to leave for my great-grandmother's funeral, i strode into her room looking for a pair of stockings and wearing a leopard-print coat. needless to say, the person pondered her apples quite quickly and bid me adieu.

but- despite her absence- that incredible, indomitable mississippi pride compelled me to unbutton the plum jacket and jaunt about the marché baring my 4Hs without a hint of shame. it was a show of affection apparently too great for the 4H shirt, which not ten minutes later was gashed to death by a cabinet corner as i put my unpondered apples away.

28 August 2006

21 my heart's a tart


placebo is one of my greatest guilty pleasures. they're huge in europe and teeny in america (aside from a substantial following of velvet goldmine obsessives and people who have dated me and been exposed). a pleasure because no one can rock the role of whiney voiced male lead quite like the beglittered, beautiful mr. molko. guilty because they've put out five albums with about one awesome album's worth of songs. thus, the ratio of awesome to dud is upsettingly high.

since the fall of 1999, i've been desperate to see them live. since then, i've missed seeing them live no less than ten times. in the spring of 2001, they were in new orleans with idlewild two days after i moved to memphis. in the fall of 2003, they were in chicago the week before i moved to town. most infuriatingly, during the summer of 2003, they swept through europe, hitting london, paris, rome, florence, innsbruck, venice, koln, and amsterdam exactly 24 hours ahead of partner and i, leaving in their wake a trail of promo posters. in venice, in frustration, i thieved one off the wall of a church. the irony in that somewhat lessened the annoyance.

but then, finally, at very long last, things fall into place: placebo and oline in chicago at the riv, november 3rd. oh the eyeliner!

26 August 2006

30 the afterbath

the dread pirate and i go way back. to 2003 at least. we are bonded by an affinity for colored sneaks and whiney male lead singers. i trust and highly esteem the dread pirate. so, spurred on by his spirited defense of them, today i took a bath. mind you, this was not a first. i have bathed before.

my fears of going down the drain were long ago allayed by mr. rogers, so to me the greatest possible bath-related disaster is the dropping of one's book into the suds. sheepishly, i have returned to mr. foote's hefty, hardbacked, bazillion-paged civil war triology (it's been tempestuous- i love him and leave him a lot), so a drop-induced tidal wave could have been deadly. i clutched the behemoth a mile above the bubbles, white-knuckled with worry.

hence it was all the more traumatic when out of absolutely nowhere, an unexpectedly stiff chicago breeze blew through the open window, pitching a leafy plant off the sill and- with a confetti of cobwebs and dirt and pebbles- into my bath.

calming? cleansing? not so much.

25 August 2006

5 he had it coming

(and before you even have time to doubt and wonder, oline! is this for reals?! let me assure you, i am not this clever. there's no freying here.)

we've covered this before. but some things are too good not to exploit for a third or fourth or twenty-fifth time. case in point: the latest- and quite possibly most sophisticated and linguistically economical- in an illustrious line of gloriously stupid friendster/myspace messages.
Chat Do you want to date me or friend two of us with. your guestion reply relationship self improvement hope !! I'm look at about type. Tell me.

a rough translation:
I am most unfortunately named Chat, though I don't always do so very intelligibly [alt. tras. I have mistakenly read your name as "Chat"]. Doesn't that make you long to date me? Or to become my friend? Or to go on a date with me and one of my friends? Or with me and my twin, Chet? You could friend the two of us and that's hot. I only have one guess as to how you might reply to my question (a "guestion"!). You would reply that you want a relationship that brings self-improvement. And hope!! [alt. trans. I only have one guess as to how you might respond to my question and that would imply a relationship based on self-improvement and hope.] You're a hoper. I'm a looker. And, look, my twin and I are all about that type of thing- hope and looks. We're all about your type. So date us or friend us. Tell me your reply.

while i don't feel quite so "beautifull" now and have concerns that my brows might have lost some of their strange appeal, it's good to know that if bombsy's scheme doesn't pan out, there are people to date. or, at the very least, people to friend two of us with.

24 August 2006

10 the perks of being an oline

aside from owning the vieve and living in the city and working in my field and having jack black's body and writing the thing (TNOWCBRATT), the next coolest bit about being an oline is rocking the prefixes. this isn't entirely unique. if there's an o in your name, you too can likely rock the prefixes. but not everyone has harnessed that level of rockingness and not everyone has an o. and it takes some work. lindear and i have tried for months to prefix her and all we've come up with is the fun "funda" and the frightful "counselorda." after months of resignation, the bombshell- who is o-less- and i only just today discovered that she could be "translateslie." so there's always hope, with or without an o.

lest this make no sense, some samples:
bootsoline
caffeinedoline
charmsoline
cheapsoline
chicagoline
cooksoline
exerciseoline
glamoline
hotoline
no-fun-times-oline
pornoline
prudeoline
reads-a-lot-oline
shortoline
sickoline
sleepsoline
smirksoline
sneaksoline
snideoline
snoboline
stompsoline
tabloidsoline
talloline
treatsoline
tripsoline
trustoline
urbanoline
(and, of course, the ever popular) trampoline

this may appear fantastically vain (yet charmingly ironic, since some hardly apply), but as an english-head, descriptors and conciseness are vital. why wander home dead beat from work and say heavens! i'm feeling awfully rather ill today! when you can plead sickoline! and collapse in bed, no questions asked? it's just more linguistically prudent. because, as hank told us in PI class (perched indian-style atop his chair, looking earnestly into our bleary, 8 a.m. friday morning eyes), you've got to make your words do the work you want them to do. advice well worth the $40,000 price tag. advice that i have just used to justify juvenile prefix play. a perk indeed.

22 August 2006

8 frankly, my dear, damn.

some weeks ago, i had a revelatory dream featuring the confederate army, clown division. well, i got a little cocky last night. i mocked the clowns. and heaven help me, they have returned.

during our last encounter, distracted by the rigors of clowny warfare and temporarily blinded by the confetti soot from their clown cannons, the embattled clowns paid me little attention. things didn't go quite so well this time around.

i have now walked through the confederate clown camp. accompanied by a clown escort, i have met their commander: chuckles (who apparently moonlighted with the rebels before dressing as a peanut and being killed by a rogue elephant on the mtm show). i have seen heaps of clown casualties- enormous piles of clown corpses with huge clown shoes protruding, clowny finery billowing in the wind.

it would seem i am to be spokeswoman for the clown confederacy. they feel misunderstood. their story has not been told. and it must be. their clown rights have been infringed. that is why they fight. why they don tattered clown pants and tangled clown wigs and pile into decrepit clown cars and make a break for the battlefield.

hurrrah! hurrah! they cheer. for clown rights hurrah!

huddled in the fetal position in the corner of a clown tent, quietly i chant, mine eyes have seen the horror of the coming of the clowns.

pass me my smelling salts, i think i shall faint.

21 August 2006

5 la belle et le bad boy

maybe all you dear musical know-it-mosts are already in the know, in which case am outing myself as behind-the-timesoline. but ah well.

for the past month or so i've been privately rocking to mc solaar. yes. french rap. obviously not your typical oline fare, but it's made fantastically awkward accompaniment to the marie antoinette and madame de pompadour books. and it's hella' good.

so, if you're into the french, rap, french rap, or weird musical juxtapositions, mc solaar= highly recommended.

4 "it's blue"



my most jackie quality is unfortunately the jackie quality that most annoyed those around her. the woman was mad for constant interior change. darling koestenbaum suggested it was an unconscious mimicry of jfk's philandering- as fast as he could change women, she could redecorate a room. in one month, the white house's blue room went from aqua to powder blue to white to tourquoise to peacock.


as a poor girl living in a studio, the situation is not quite that extreme. but still. there are people who are thrilled to have hung all their pictures by the time they move out of an apartment after a year or two or five. it's been eight months. the pictures were hung within twelve hours. they've relocated at least twelve times since.

the primary cause of this decorative restlessness is that it's quite unfair for anyone's tastes to be confined to one room (plus some closets). i'm a pleasantly bizarro pastiche of 18th century france, 1900s russia, 1920s deco, 1960s warhol, 1970s jackie, and 1980s carroll cloare. and that makes for some schizophrenic decor.

it only recently became clear that i've been unconsciously transitioning through all these eras. today, a room that started out with a mod 1960s london concept began the final stages of morphing into a deco parisian flat. down came the breakfast at tiffany's poster and up went the barbier prints.

i give it three months. then out come the marushkas and the bolshevik flag.

20 August 2006

5 baby, baby, baby

"ultraviolet" is my favorite u2 song. i know this but sometimes forget why.

but for years and years it's been there. when sleep wouldn't come, when the words weren't there, when that stupid 50 mph drive down the nachez trace to starkville wouldn't end.

sometimes- the really crap, restless times- it's all i can listen to. for an hour, a day, a week, a month. however long need be.

if you know me, you know "ultraviolet." you've been repeatedly exposed to it if not actually become its friend (excepting the dread pirate and croftie who have yet to go on a road trip and therefore yet to open the Dread Pirate Dougo's Chest of Road Trip Treasures). this is the song that made me weep from joy at the u2 cover band.

in essence, it's the song where achtung baby slips from the exhillaration and deceptions of the night to the pain and beauty of the day. without "ultraviolet," AB would be an entirely different album. it would hinge upon a phone call from a man in hell. it would be darker, scarier and- after the third track- largely without hope. and i'm for hope.

i hadn't listened to "ultraviolet" in awhile. but last week, in memphis, i drove home from the Big Event during an incredible electrical storm. no rain. no thunder. just tendrils of light- like electrical fingers (think The Emperor in return of the jedi)- darting across the sky. the air smelled like river and azaleas. the ipod was hellbent on playing new order and art brut but only u2 would do.

because there are some storms that are like heaven and some songs that are like prayers.

17 August 2006

8 ferris wheeled


a by no means flattering photograph that nonetheless proves we did ride it, make it to the top and make it back to the bottom. though we looked rather stunned to be doing it.

1 ah... torture!

at 4.37 a.m. yesterday, no doubt thoroughly exhausted by its zucchinni-induced hysterics, my fire detector (MFD) began a slow and painful death. a slow and painful death heralded by eratic beepings at a volume most often employed by emergency vehicles.

as we've established in prior musings about MFD, there are few places in a small apartment that are not close to the kitchen. there is also apparently no place for MFD but the absolute highest peak of the ceiling. this time, even the pink fan was of no help. thus, because julio was unable to come to the rescue until 6 p.m., MFD's demise prompted a twelve hour journey of self-discovery, set to elvis albums and punctuated by obnoxious beepings akin to bird-squawks.

from this we have learned that i, a jumpy person who hates birds and the phone, can, in fact, hold a series of sustained telephone conversations while subjected to obscenely loud bird noises. noises that so unhinged the vieve that she- who will attack a cereal flake with stalin-esque vigor- was rendered impervious to the massive fly (promptly dubbed colette) that came to live with us. even colette seemed rather shocked to have wandered into such inhospitably loud environs. we were a household of terrorized, raven-haired women.

for some brief moments throughout the day, i did wonder if there might be invisible flames or fatal gases. whether MFD knew something we didn't. whether my towel-headed, revolutionary outfitted self would be found dead on the floor clutching a dead vieve amidst a pile of newspaper clippings about black people. but no. there would come another oh so brief yet oh so ridiculously, unbelieveably, unexpectedly, horribly loud BLEWEIIEIEEIIP and the veive would do that thing where she puts her head on backwards and i would down another diet coke- thanking God we were still alive- put the phone back to my ear and try not to sound like a dimwit.

16 August 2006

5 dead day

here we are again. the biggest day in the biggest week of the elvis year. the day the king of rock keeled over on the toilet. an event so momentous it has been commemorated for 29 years. it means nothing to most of you people, but us memphians, it's our heritage. because elvis is our homeboy. so we light a candle. we turn up are you lonesome tonight? we stare at the chairs in our parlor, empty and bare. we pour some wine. we kneel before a silver platter of fried peanut butter and bananna sandwiches and jellied doughnuts. and we pray: e.p., phone home.


(incidentally, i think Dead Week has cast a wee bit of a pall and that is why recent times have been so tumultuous for friendships and shoes. Birth Week should be calmer.)

15 August 2006

4 swan song

The Green Shoes (ver. 2.0) of Starkville, Memphis, and Chicago passed away on August 13, 2006. They were preceeded in death by their slightly older identical twins, The Green Shoes (ver. 1.0), who gave their lives at Memphis in May 2005, and their cousins, The Red Shoes of the Dread Pirate Dougo. The Green Shoes were survived by everyone who knew them. Their laces will live on.

14 August 2006

2 the teddy, finis


the dread pirate recently asked my philosophy on blogging. i responded that i don't like people who blog as though it were their journal. the whole and then we went to the wolf parade show and OMG that piano player was so hott!!! y'know?! and then max totally dumped me then and there and made out with tiffany and i was so like DUDE! business. but while this is a bit of an overshare by my standards, since we all have a teddy, the following does not entirely break my own rule.

last week, the teddy was in my town and we did lunch. this week i was in the teddy's town and we did a movie. we haven't really been friendOs since the holiday apocalypse (and yes, the holiday apocalypse was so bad it warranted a move from friends to friendOs in an effort to salvage ourselves), so there was some awkward.

i'm a plan-driven wallflowery english-head who likes having a handful of dear people who have people and appreciate absurdity and awkwardness and kitties and create things. the teddy is a charismatic charmer who doesn't make plans and keeps in contact only with acquaintances who have apartments in cities with good concerts. our paths crossed some years ago and we became great friends. for several reasons, the greatness didn't last.

if my personality can be condensed as "the love child of elvis and jackie" it is also condensed, in part, as partner, libby, lindear, kj, croftie, bombshell, maggot, etc. we are, in part, the people we love and i have always believed you have to hold on to those people, even if they kind of suck sometimes. because we all kind of suck sometimes. and because you love them. partner is the best example. we've been through some horrid hell of awkward, hurtful crap together. but we saw titanic. we could never let go.

but, to carry the titanic metaphor to its inevitable end, rose did let go (though our sixteen-year-old hearts cursed her for it). and much as i'm fascinated by the personality and exploits of teddys in general (and please don't underestimate the spectacle of so much squandered potential- heartbreaking to be sure, but riveting nonetheless) and much as i will, no doubt, literarily exploit the plotlines that have arisen from the teddy, sometimes you simply must let people go.

however, as a literary person, the perfect conclusion is needed. let's ignore the lunch and the movie. there was nothing there to even work with. and let's ignore the fact that despite this, the teddy will probably call again some day and there may be other lame-o lunches and movies in the future. really, the friend(O)ship has died. and those lunch and movie scenarios do not grant it an appropriately sad, absurd, stupid end.

so let's say the era ended some weeks ago, when the teddy called only to say that he was eating what he mistakenly believed to be my six-month-old mango mellon sunrise yoplait yogurt that he had found in the fridge. this was our appropriate demise.

sad because the fact this might possibly be my six-month-old yogurt was the only excuse upon which a conversation could be initiated. absurd because the fact that this might possibly be my six-month-old yogurt did not deter the teddy from eating it. and stupid that the teddy was so ignorant of my strawberry-banana allegiance as to not know that yogurts of the mango mellony persuasion would never infiltrate my grocery cart, much less my fridge.

thus, the teddy: oline, you'll never guess what i'm eating your yogurt that mango mellon stuff you left behind at christmas y'know i just had to call because doesn't that just totally kill you?!

finis.

11 August 2006

1 taking care of business in a flash

on the final flight, sat near an elvis impersonator who was reading a tabloid and loudly pontificating about the moral truths to be learned from celebrity lives. a dream comes true, my friends.

10 August 2006

3 from oline in memphis


and i'm off- to read colette's claudine novels, to listen to a lot of elvis, to have some as-yet-determined detroit flight drama, to publically appear in memphis, to wildly galavant about mantachie, mississippi, and to the bring mother cupcake to chicagoland.

for those of you playdating with the vieve (and checking out the sexy new floor), a thousand thanks. the cupcakes are in the fridge.

08 August 2006

3 curses

i don't particularly like cursing (though there is that contingent that believes i unloose violent curses into a pillow every night and though on every single occasion where my bad driving might have led to death, i have said shit- which i really really would hope is not going to be my epitaph, but that's beside the point).

in writing it's fine and when the people around me curse, am not going to stop them or pull a frownie face or anything (unless my mum or small children are present, in which case you get death eyes, the brows of disgust and the lips of disapproval). but when they curse at me in anger, i want to claw them and that's not a particularly useful impulse. curses should be meaningful, significant, weighty. then when you're making A Big Point and do curse, it's all the more powerful. it's an actual curse, not an adjective.

so i was rather alarmed when the subject line of the ticketmaster reminder email for the wolf parade show flippantly included the phrase "Don't forget Wolf Parade, Holy F#$k!" it wasn't offensive but it wasn't welcoming either. it was by no means "kanga and the roos." coupled with the other opener's name it just seemed a response to exotic cuisine: holy f#$k! frog eyes!

all this made it incredibly difficult to tell people the name of the opening act. "holy eff" was too prudish. the alternative was too tourettes. we went the tourettes route but it still took a prolonged conversation before kahriysztieenuh realized the dread pirate and i were not shouting random obscenities, but identifying the band.

the shitty thing is that i kind of really liked "holy f#$k!" i kind of really want to buy their cd. i kind of really want to tell people about them. but what can you say? hey everyone, holy f#$k!

07 August 2006

15 it's getting better all the time















in case you're keeping score...

Oline's Top 10 Concert Experiences
1. u2- atlanta, nov. 30, 2001
2. u2- boston, may 24, 2005
3. gogol bordello- chicago, apr. 8, 2006
4. u2- new york, nov. 21, 2005
5. u2- atlanta, mar. 31, 2001
6. queens of the stone age- atlanta, may 2002
7. wolf parade- chicago, aug. 7, 2006
8. harmar superstar+the strokes- jackson, jan. 2002
9. the hives- memphis, nov. 2004
10. the features- nashville, apr. 2004

05 August 2006

4 "is your friend a neo-futurist?"

at 11 on saturday night, the dread pirate, croftie and i went to see the bombshell's fabulous, totally noticeable turn as unnoticeable girl at the rogue theatre. i won't even go into the ordeal of staying up past 9 p.m., because that is embarrassing. but suffice it to say we three were a wee bit eh when setting off on our journey.

and the thing about our journey was we didn't know much about it. the bombshell had sent an email with a bombshelly set of directions that i neglected to read and simply forwarded to croftie, who remembered key tidbits. so croftie knew the theater was either south or north of foster street, i knew the play started at 11 and was 40 minutes long, and we all knew the bombshell was in it.

we did not know that foster was an endless bus ride away, what street the theater was actually on, the name of the theatre or the name of the play. not knowing all of this, we approached the first thing resembling a gathering of theatre-goers to inquire if this was, in fact, a line for a forty minute play beginning at 11.

brave croftie strode up to a couple at line's end and for a glorious moment we thought this was the bombshell's theater, but these people were waiting for a series of 30 plays in sixty minutes. we were about to doubt one of the three things we definatively knew when an unfortunately unclean fellow asked, in a decidedly haugty tone: "is your friend a neo-futurist?"

we were confused. bombsy was kind of raised catholic but we think she would have told us if there'd been dabbling elsewhere. obviously, this was not our forty minute play. we walked on.

thanks to hans and franz, we eventually found the "baby theatre," conveniently located by the "baby gym." we had caffeine and laughed and cheered and voted for bombsy (or tried to) and made promises to be back for the next episode.

then, because it was a night where nothing could go quite normal, we had a ghetto train ride, arriving at fullerton just in time to see a frat boy bitch out his friends and wander around the station bleeding profusely from the head. almost enough to make you want to be a neo-futurist. because a neo-futurist would be impervious to such things, transfixed by a riveting internal debate of capital “F” F/futures versus small “f” futures.

04 August 2006

4 playing the field


we took the free tickets. we donned some HUGE sunglasses. we boarded the crowded train. we found the upper deck. we kicked the squatters from our seats. we clapped. we groaned. we solved the mystery of the scoreboard. we were quite nearly impaled by a foul ball. shortly after, we squeezed together rather awkwardly so- in case of our unfortunate deaths by 225 m.p.h. ball- there would be photographic proof we were, in fact, enjoying the game. we watched the dread pirates kill the cubby bears. not really caring either way, we went happily home. the lazy days of summer officially end here. bring on the fall.

03 August 2006

2 it's hard out here for a dyed haired woman

since the Great Memphis Flights Fiasco of 2006 has been resolved, i will, in fact, be making a cameo next week (so incredibly unbelieveably unfortunately almost not quite the 29th Elvis Presley Memorial Dead Week 2006). so there will be parents and grandparents and clients and public appearances. all this after 14 shampoos.

we're all familiar with the lips of disapproval. they're a croftie trademark. a simple slip of a single facial muscle that effectively communicates volumes. though the eyebrows of encouragement, the giggles of embarrassment, and the claps of glee are also powerful weapons in our leopard-printed arsenal of feminine wiles, the lips of disapproval have consistently been the most effective and efficient.

for some reason i never imagined the lips of disapproval could have any effect over the phone (and apparently the IBF has been exorcised and the animosity shifted to telephonery), so heavily did their impact rely upon the visual. it would seem i was wrong.

last night, over the phone, my mum heard about midnight noir. there was an oh. then, i know, there were the lips of disapproval. major, grade A, top notch, award-winning lips of disapproval. oh what we could have learned from these lips of disapproval. a treatise could have been written. insight could have been gained. we could now know how the already laudable effectiveness and efficiency of the lips of disapproval can be increased, can win wars, can imperil civilizations, can jeopordize epochs. i can only shake my black-haired head in wonder. alas, the stupid phone.

01 August 2006

4 i do not heart the phone

there's nothing that makes me sound quite so idiotic as the phone. excepting people with whom a good portion of my relationship has been phone-based (ie. parents, grandparents, partner), i am a telephonic rain man.


so it was not a fun time today at 7 AM- in the midst of trying to correct The Great Memphis Flights Fiasco of 2006 with a telemarketer whose voice never rose above a whisper- when i was forced to spell my street name aloud. arlington. not that hard. but i'm no good speaking in a tight spot.

first the simple word "arlington" had to be written down. then this:

A as in .......... um........ arrondissement.
R as in .......... um........ romeo.
L as in .......... um........ lampoon.
I as in .......... um........ iowa.
N as in .......... um........ novella.
G as in .......... um........ grocer.
T as in .......... um........ talleyrand.
O as in .......... um........ obsequious.
N as in .......... um........ nabakov.


the odds of winding up stranded in detroit (despite the fact that the flights are to atlanta and memphis): 2 to 1.